Orion Lost

by Alastair Chisholm

  The suit stopped and slumped.

  “Confirmed,” said Lauryn. “That’s it aligned.”

  Beth swallowed. “We’ll head back now,” she said. Her voice wavered.

  Arnold said, “But we could do another – there’s one not far away—”

  “Now!” she snapped.

  After a moment Vihaan said, “You heard her. This was a practice run only.”

  The group turned and trudged back to the airlock. Beth concentrated on the route on her display and ignored everything else. The others bounded ahead, obviously delighted.

  They made it back to the airlock, and as the platform sank back down, Beth felt the tiny increase in gravity and watched the outer door close over them. And then there was the hiss of recompression and the inner door was opening and Lucille was there, and they could unfasten their helmets and breathe the ship air.

  “Woo-hoo!” shouted Arnold. “That was amazing!”

  “Well done, everyone,” said Vihaan. He was even smiling.

  “Is that it then?” asked Arnold. “Are we good? Have we done it?”

  “No,” muttered Beth. She felt cross and oddly betrayed. How had she failed when everyone else had done so well? “There are more emitters to fix.”

  “How many?”

  “Two hundred and thirty-seven.”

  The group fell quiet, and Beth felt meanly satisfied.

  “Get me out of this suit,” she snapped to Lucille. “We all need to rest.”

  They unsuited in subdued silence and went back to the dorms.

  But by lunchtime the mood of cheerfulness had resumed, and the crew were laughing and exchanging stories. Beth sat to one side, ignoring them all, and chewed on a sandwich without tasting it. Now that she was back inside, everything seemed normal again. She couldn’t understand what had happened. It was ridiculous! How had no one else felt it, that paralysing, all-encompassing terror? Could they not see? Were they lying? How could she be afraid of space?

  Vihaan and Mikkel approached. Vihaan seemed to have something on his mind.

  “Do you think we can repair all the emitters?” he asked bluntly.

  “What?” Beth realised she hadn’t even considered it. She’d been so wrapped in her own failure she’d forgotten about what they were trying to do.

  “Well,” she said, thinking. “That’s one done, and it went OK. So, ah…”

  One done. Two hundred and thirty-seven to go. If we manage two per day, that’s still nearly four months. And that’s assuming nothing goes wrong, and no one gets hurt—

  There was no way they could repair all the emitters.

  “I, ah…” she fumbled. What to say? A leader should be confident, right? Say something positive. But it was clearly impossible.

  “I think, maybe,” she said cautiously, “if we were careful, and, uh, if we … I mean…”

  Vihaan watched her taper off into silence. Then he said, in a flat voice, “I do not. I think that we could fix one, two, maybe ten. But two hundred – that is not feasible. We should understand what is possible and what is not.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. Why hadn’t she just said that?

  “Mikkel has an idea.” Vihaan turned to Mikkel, who nodded.

  “I thought, there are Gizmos in the generator rooms, yes? One is working, maybe others we could repair. Perhaps we could get them out?”

  Beth shrugged. “Yeah, but the whole of Generator Three is wedged in the exit hatch. And we can’t open the internal doors because the rooms are exposed to space – it smashed the airlock.”

  Mikkel nodded. “Yes, but maybe we could cover the outer hatch? If we got a big sheet of metal and welded it over the outside, we could make a seal. Then the ship could pump air back into the generator room, and then we could—”

  “We could open the internal doors and let the Gizmo out!” said Beth. Excitement lifted her out of her mood. “Fantastic! Can we do it?”

  Mikkel shrugged. “I think so. There are vacuum welder fittings for the spacesuits. We could get a sheet of metal from Supplies.”

  “And once we had the Gizmo,” said Vihaan, “we could program it to fix the emitters for us.”

  “Mikkel, that’s genius.” said Beth. “Arnold! How’d you fancy a bit of welding?”

  Arnold looked up. Mikkel explained the plan, and he grinned. “Sounds good!” The others started chattering, and Beth watched them, smiling. Fix the hatch, rescue the Gizmo, repair the emitters, go home. Easy!

  Fix the hatch. The thought crawled up her back and Beth shivered suddenly. Leave the ship. Walk across the surface again, under the black sky. Under that terrible, awful void…

  She shook her head and tried to push the thought away.

  16

  Repairs

  They ran the idea past Ship, who did agree, eventually, that it might work. It even pointed them to sheets of titanium alloy they could use from Supplies. Arnold found the welding kits, which attached on to the backpacks and worked even in the vacuum of space, and spent the day figuring out how to operate them safely. He seemed very confident, although the thought of Arnold waving around a white-hot welding arc in space made Beth want to sit down in a dark room.

  The others brought up six metal sheets from Supplies. The plan was to weld two to each side of the hatch and then the last two over the middle. The sheets were huge and heavy, and it took all of them to lumber each one on to the trolley, but finally they dragged them to the airlock floor. Arnold fitted the welding sets to their suits. They were ready.

  Everyone had agreed that this was preparation only, and that the mission itself would be the next day. They’d get some sleep, be ready and refreshed. But by four o’clock ship time it was all done, and they all stood in front of the suits and metal sheets. Nobody made a move to leave.

  After a minute Beth said, “Oh, let’s just do it.”

  “Yes!” shouted Arnold, and they all surged towards the suits.

  “We could do this with three people, if you prefer,” said Vihaan.

  Beth stopped. “What?”

  He gestured towards the airlock. “The walk. We could do it with three. If you wanted to stay here and … command.”

  The others stopped. Nobody looked at Beth.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last. “Four would be better. You need four.”

  Arnold murmured, “We only had three last time.”

  “Last time was a glitch,” snapped Beth. “There was something wrong with my suit.”

  Mikkel and Lauryn frowned. Mikkel said, “I do not think—”

  “It was a glitch,” insisted Beth. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  She ignored the tremble in her hands, the butterflies in her stomach, and tried to push them down and away. I’m the captain. Just for a moment she wondered if Vihaan was right. Perhaps she should stay behind and let them do this. Stay behind … while Vihaan led the mission and saved the ship…

  No chance.

  “Thanks, Vihaan,” she said smoothly. “I’m sure if you’re feeling tired you could do ground control here. But if you think you’re up for it, we should probably push on, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t react; just looked steadily at her and then, after a second, nodded. “Very well.” He turned away.

  They changed back into the underclothes, still clammy from that morning’s walk, and clambered into their suits. Then they put the large helmets on again and felt the air solidify around them, external noise wiped out and replaced with the sound of their own breathing and the crackle of radio, and they walked into the airlock, standing on the metal sheets, and fastened their tethers.

  Beth listened as the air hissed out around them. She was fine. The large doors above their heads opened, and the floor started to rise to the surface of the ship. She was fine. The floor stopped moving. They were on the hull of the ship. She looked up at the naked sky.

  She was not fine.

  She thought she’d be ready this time, but the black open space exhaled
around her, covered her, crushed her as if she was nothing. She wondered if she was going to faint. She could hear her heartbeat, feel a thudding pulse behind her ears. It was all too big.

  Mechanically, barely listening, Beth stomped after the others, moved into position, lifted up the sheets – now weighing almost nothing – and trudged towards the hatch. She focused on her gloves, her fingers holding the sheet, not looking up. There was an odd, grey sparkling fog at the edges of her vision; the longer she walked, the more it closed in on her. She walked.

  They crept across the hull, towards the generator-room hatchway.

  “How’s it going, Beth?” asked Lauryn’s voice over the radio. Beth ignored it.

  “I’m only asking ’cos I’m monitoring your heart rates over here and, I don’t know, maybe it’s glitchy because yours is showing, like, a hundred and eighty beats.” Lauryn gave a nervous laugh. “Are you OK?”

  Foot up. Foot down. The grey around her vision was so thick she could see only a tiny circle ahead of her, like looking down a telescope at something far away, her hands on the ends of arms too long for her, her fingers impossible to control.

  Foot up…

  Slowly, calmly, Beth let her other foot peel off the surface of the ship and float up behind her. She released the metal sheet and drifted upwards, away from the others and the ship and her hands and feet, drifted up and looked at it all as if it was something she was watching on a screen, far away. Drifted…

  “—can anyone see—”

  “—eth! Beth, what are you—”

  “BETH! BETH, WAKE UP!”

  She came to with a start and suddenly realised what was happening, what she was doing. She screamed and thrashed her arms around with absolutely no effect.

  “Help!”

  “—ckets, use the—”

  Rockets. She stabbed at the buttons that controlled the tiny steering rockets on her backpack, but she couldn’t remember which buttons to press; she mashed her hand on them all and pushed herself further away. Space was reaching for her just as she’d feared; she was a fleck of dust and she had been brushed off the surface…

  And then she was being tugged hard back towards the hull so fast that her arms stretched out in front of her, and now she was colliding with something or someone and there was a suit there and she looked up and it was Arnold; she could see his face from behind the visor, staring at her and saying something.

  She stared back. Her fingers clamped tight round his arm and she didn’t seem to be able to let go.

  “—weren’t very far up,” he was saying. His voice was gruff, almost embarrassed. “Your tether fired. You were connected to the surface. I jumped up and grabbed you and used the boosters to pull you back down. Came down a little fast, sorry.”

  She was crying, she realised. “You saved my life,” she gasped.

  “You were never in danger,” crackled Vihaan scornfully. “You were about three metres off the deck.”

  Beth’s breathing slowly started to return to normal. Her heartbeat strummed in her ears. The air inside her suit smelled of scared sweat.

  After a moment, Vihaan said, “She won’t make it to the hatch. We’ll have to push on.”

  “Don’t leave me!”

  “No.” Vihaan sighed. “We can’t leave you either.” He paused. “Arnold, you’ve got the experience with the welder. Mikkel – I’m sorry. Take Beth back to the airlock.”

  Mikkel turned his suit towards Beth. For a moment he didn’t move. Then, in a resigned voice, he said, “OK,” and clumped towards her, back towards the airlock. She stumbled alongside him, feeling his arm under her fingers, and wishing that her voice would work normally.

  There was silence for a while on the radio. For once Lauryn was quiet. Then, when they were halfway back, they heard Vihaan say, “Lauryn, we’re at the hatch.”

  Beth and Mikkel walked back, listening to the sounds of two people doing a job that needed at least three. They were still at it when Mikkel nudged Beth to let her know they’d reached the airlock. She stood silently as the floor descended, as the outer door closed, as air hissed back in, as the inner door opened.

  Mikkel unclamped Beth’s hand from his suit and led her out of the airlock. Lucille unfastened her helmet and helped her from her suit. Beth walked out of the airlock room without looking at anyone, and showered and changed her clothes. Then she went back to her dorm and lay on her bed.

  Some time later, there was a knock on the door and Mikkel looked in.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Beth sighed. “Hey.”

  Mikkel said, “It looks like it worked. Ship says the welding is a bit rough, but it’s sealed.”

  Beth nodded. “They did a good job,” she said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  He coughed. “They can’t pump the air in yet. Ship won’t let them without the, uh, captain’s authorisation.” He half smiled. “Vihaan is cross about that.”

  Beth nodded. “OK,” she said. “I’ll come out.”

  “OK.”

  He waited a little longer and then turned to leave.

  “Mikkel?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t get to work on it. On the welding. It was your idea, after all. I messed it up.”

  Mikkel didn’t disagree. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the doorframe as if it was fascinating. After a few seconds, he sighed.

  “It’s a form of agoraphobia,” he said. “A fear of open spaces. It affects some people when they spacewalk. It is not a thing to be ashamed of.” He shrugged. “There are things I cannot do. Things you can do, or Lauryn, or Arnold. That is OK – I am good at other things instead. I do the things I can and leave the rest to others. I do not worry about what I can’t do. You’re good at some things too. It’s not your fault you have agoraphobia.”

  He took a deep breath. “But when you knew you couldn’t do it, and did it anyway, you risked the mission. You risked us. And that was…” He looked away.

  “A bit rubbish,” said Beth quietly.

  “Yes.” He looked around, embarrassed, and kicked his heels. “I will tell them you are coming, yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK.” And he left.

  She waited another five minutes, staring at the ceiling. Then she sighed, wiped at her eyes and went out to face the others.

  17

  Training

  Beth walked into the canteen, where the others were waiting. Vihaan unfolded from his seat and stood up straight. In a cold, formal voice he gave a report of the rest of the mission and asked her to order Ship to pump the air back in. Beth did so.

  There was a long pause, before Ship said, “Atmospheric pressure is rising in Generator Room Two. Repairs are holding.”

  Arnold cheered, and the others breathed out, and laughed, and gave each other high fives. They grinned at Beth too, and she sighed with relief.

  Vihaan didn’t cheer. He stared past her, with no expression, and said nothing.

  By the next morning the damaged generator rooms were nearly at the same pressure as the rest of the ship, and Ship agreed to open the inner doors and let the Gizmos out. The cameras in the rooms were destroyed; the children could only listen to the distant clump-clump-clump as the one surviving Gizmo walked out, dragging the remains of three more on a trolley.

  The crew met the Gizmo as it came through the last door. It was tall, taller than an adult, and it stooped under the low ceiling of the corridor. It had been blue and red once, but it was now charred black, its surfaces pockmarked with thousands of chips and scrapes. Its left foot seemed fused, and one side of its face was caved in.

  “It’s a Type Three,” said Arnold, looking it over critically. “Old but good. Could be worse. Say hello, Gizmo.”

  “Hello,” said the robot. It had a deep, slightly rasping voice.

  “Status, Gizmo,” said Arnold.

  “Status: emergency repair mode activated. Damage to left ankle. Cosmetic damage to surface and f
ace. Internal systems intact. Power intact. Warning: this droid needs servicing and repair. If you continue to use this droid, your warranty may be invalidated. Why not contact Jones and Yamaguchi, Droid Repair Services, for all your Gizmo needs? We’re only a call away!”

  It fell silent again.

  “Hmm,” said Mikkel. “Maybe Jones and Yamaguchi do house calls, yes?”

  “What about the others?” asked Beth.

  Arnold examined the broken Gizmos on the trolley and shook his head. “Don’t know, they look burned up. We might fix one, two maybe – want me to try?”

  “Later,” said Beth. “Take them to the repair shop, and we’ll see what this one can do.”

  Arnold nodded and gave the orders, and the Gizmo dragged the trolley away down the corridor.

  They did a trial run that morning, sending the one working Gizmo out to the surface of the ship and watching from cameras. The Gizmo was designed for repairs and had magnets built into its soles, and despite its damaged foot it managed the peculiar peel-off-peel-on walking style effortlessly. It trudged towards the nearest emitter and climbed on to the platform.

  Back on the bridge, Lauryn stared at a screen full of diagnostic messages and muttered into a microphone, and the Gizmo turned first one wheel, and then the other. Ten minutes later, it stepped back off the platform, sank gently to the deck, and stood to attention.

  “Checking…” said Mikkel “Yes. It is fine.”

  “Hah!” shouted Arnold, and Lucille gave a little smile. Beth said, “Can it do the rest?”

  “Sure,” said Lauryn. “Me and Mikkel have been looking at it. It’s pretty simple – we just need to give it directions to the emitters and their new settings. In fact, I was rooting around and found a program in the ship’s database, does just that.” She snorted. “It was rubbish. Totally wrong. But I fixed it.”

  “How long will it take?”

  Lauryn screwed up her face. “I reckon… It’s got to walk to each one, and it has to recharge. And we want to be careful. Let’s say, eight a day?” Mikkel nodded. “Yeah,” said Lauryn. “So that’s, uh, thirty days.”